


The Endless Horizon

by johnfuxkslarry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Greaserlock, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnfuxkslarry/pseuds/johnfuxkslarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes was first caught using, never expected it to lead to meeting the one person who his world would revolve around, and who would save him from himself. </p>
<p>When John Watson moved to small town America, he never expected to become a greaser and he never expected to meet the one person who would change his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Onto the Moon and the Stars

No one was more disappointed in Sherlock Holmes than his older brother Mycroft. It had only been two years since the boys had moved from London and already Sherlock had been in trouble with the authorities more times than the older boy could count. As if being a guardian at the age of 24 wasn’t hard enough, Sherlock seemed determined to make it even harder. With the constant skipping of classes, hanging out with that dangerous Victor Trevor, and (the inevitable) sneaking into crime scenes, any other human being would have already gone mad living with the boy. Constantly tripping over experiments in the hallway and often finding Sherlock’s room in mess, Mycroft Holmes had to be as patient as humanly possible with the teenager- a difficult feat. But, when the elder Holmes heard the news- good lord- he was utterly shocked and, for the first time in his life, actually disappointed with Sherlock. How Mycroft was going to get him out of this was inexplicable. However, as for exactly how the teen would get back in his good graces was easily explained. He wouldn’t.

Sherlock Holmes was utterly fucked. If all had gone according to plan, he and Victor would have never been caught. As usual, nothing did and once again he sat in the cold, sterile cell, running his long fingers over the gritty cement of the bench. Oh for god’s sake-were those chills he was getting? Coming down from a high was pure torture (he’d done it many times before), but to have to do it in front of police officers? Any dignity or credibility the teen had ever possessed was quickly stripped from him. Bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs, Sherlock sat with his head against the slightly damp wall and gazed at the bars holding him in. Moving his line of sight from the black iron, he peered at the police officer standing down the hallway. Slightly rounder around the edges than years ago, the man glared back at the boy and reached for his baton, as if the skinny teen being held in the cell actually posed a threat. Sherlock would later scoff at that, but right now he was too tired to care. Shutting his eyes and laying down on the cool cement, the boy clenched his fists and tried to will away his shaking hands. When would Mycroft be here?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock Holmes had never been so happy to see Mycroft in his entire life, and Mycroft never so unhappy to see his little brother. Face red and spittle flying from his mouth, Mycroft snarled at the boy, “Get up. We have a truckload of paperwork to do and I’ve got an appointment to attend.” The guard beside the elder Holmes reached for the ring of keys on his belt and unlocked the metal bars containing the teen. Stumbling his way towards the hallway, Sherlock yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “Lead the way officer,” Mycroft murmured under his breath; any attempt to contain his rage unconvincing. Following the officer into a small carpeted room the two brothers situated them in the chairs opposite the officer sitting across the desk. Sherlock’s head pounded and black spots danced before his eyes. He was sure he smelled like smoke, sweat and-ugh-his own vomit. “Do excuse the stench, Officer-?” “Baxter. Let’s do this as quickly as possible and with as little bureaucratic nonsense, shall we?” Mycroft’s gaze shifted to Sherlock, who was trying, and failing to disguise his laughter as coughing. “Of course, Officer.” “Now, the boy’s been charged with underage use of tobacco products, small scale larceny and, you probably know of this, truancy. The first is a higher degree offence than the others, so it will be a bit harder to ignore. The second may be paid off with community service and the third may be resolved if the boy would just show up to class.” Sherlock looked at his scuffed sneakers and tried to act as though he felt any remorse which, of course, he didn’t. 

“I am sure you know who I am, Officer Baxter. And, if I am correct, then you also know of my position in the government. I will pay you 500 dollars to gloss over all of the charges, and you have my word that Sherlock will indeed be attending school from now on,” Mycroft had slipped into his usual, no-nonsense-business-only visage. The Officer’s own cool expression fell from his face and his jaw gaped. “S-Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, that is a hell of a lot of money. Do you realise that the offences listed don’t even add up to anything close to that?” Mycroft gave a small smirk and folded his hands in his lap. Inwardly, Sherlock shivered, remembering the circumstances under which he’d seen that smile. “You see Officer; an event like this could affect my career-which at this point is more vulnerable than anything else. The extra money is to ensure your silence. Should you break that silence, I can personally assure you that nothing good will come of it. Get up, Sherlock. I have an appointment. One I cannot miss, I’m afraid, so we’ll be leaving. My assistant will deliver the money later today. Good day, Officer.” Sherlock scrambled to his feet and followed in Mycroft’s pounding footsteps. As soon as the Holmes left the office, Sherlock was sure he heard Officer Baxter mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “Goddamn Brits.”

By the time they’d reached the car, the teen knew he was in for a lecture. Flinging himself in the passenger seat, Sherlock defiantly crossed his arms and threw his head back. “You are so very lucky,” Sherlock turned his head so quickly, he was sure he’d pulled something. “So very lucky that those imbeciles did not notice how painfully high you were when they picked you up,” Mycroft continued, turning the key in the ignition. “What are you doing with your life, brother mine? You throw away any chance you are given to be a useful member of society for spending more time with that horrible gang of yours. That terrible Victor boy, that pitiful Mike Stamford and all that other worthless teenage scum,” Mycroft paused, preparing himself to continue with his hateful speech, but before he had the chance to, Sherlock butted in. 

“What the fuck do you know, Mycroft? You must at least understand that having me attend school his like sending me to a building filled with chimps, and telling me to learn something. Learn something from them? I don’t do my assignment because they’re trivial and not worthy of my time. As for sneaking into crime scenes- I know that’s what you were going to rant about –the police should be thanking me! I’ve solved more cases for them than that idiotic Baxter or anyone else on the force for that matter. I’m helping people, aren’t I, and if that isn’t something a useful member of society attempts to do, then what is?” Sherlock reached into the pocket of his tattered leather jacket and grabbed a packet of cigarettes. Lighting one with quivering fingers- he was still coming down, jesus christ -Sherlock took a lengthy drag and blew the smoke into Mycroft’s face. Coughing and spluttering, Mycroft jerked a bit on the wheel and the car swerved on the black asphalt. “So cool it, brother mine. Or one day, I shall do something so awful, even you will be astounded.” “Spit that thing out. You will be going back to school and you will stop hanging out will those god-awful greasers, so help me lord,” Sherlock stubbed out the smoke on Mycroft’s leather seat before throwing it out the open window and fixed his gaze on the morning sunrise. When the sun rose on the horizon of prairie it was a glimpse of unadulterated Americana, setting the entire sky ablaze with burning reds and smouldering oranges. Sherlock hated it. The endless sky, the small town he was forced to live in, the idiotic public school he (occasionally) attended and most of all, the utter bleakness of it all. It was 1954, for god sakes! The future lay before them; onto the moon and the stars, beckoned society and it seemed like Sherlock was the only one going out of his mind in this lethargy! There had to be something or someone of interest in this hateful prairie, and Sherlock was determined to find whatever it was.

Upon reaching the two-story colonial house on the northeast side of town, Mycroft parked the black Chevrolet in the driveway and Sherlock stumbled out of the automobile. Oh god- his back was killing him. It seemed as though attempting sleep on a concrete bench of a drunk tank had not been one of his brightest ideas. Desperate for sleep and maybe another cigarette, the teen shuffled towards the house, the elder Holmes lurching forward with great impatience. Sherlock hadn’t even thought if the man had eaten today, or, more to the point, slept. Once the maroon door was unlocked, Sherlock climbed the winding stairs to his room (knocking over three experiments in the process) and then collapsed on the bed. Sleep was probably his best option now, but Sherlock just couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened last night. He was supposed to be a genius, but would a genius have let Victor drag him into that mess? Sherlock went over the events a final time in his head, before drifting into a deep slumber.

It was a hot day, nearly 95 degrees, and dry as well, the arid heat settling into your bones like a permanent state of being. Victor, Mike and Sherlock had been hanging out at the local drug store, offing candies and magazines, desperate for something else to do on this dreadful Saturday. Upon exiting the store, Victor nearly ran into another hood. “Hey nosebleed, watch where the fuck you’re going,” Victor was easily riled, especially on days like this when the tedium approached a climatic upheaval. “Oh yeah?” The boy turned, he must have been close to 17, and sneered, before the expression on his face turned to one of pleasant surprise. “Vic? Jesus, it’s been years! Remember me, it’s Jimmy. Go by the handle of Ripper now, but all the same,” the boy had thick black hair and a sharp nose that reminded Sherlock of a hawk, constantly looking down its beak for prey. “Jimmy! Man, it’s been years. Last I heard you were in some trouble with the fuzz. That you held a gas station up for some bread or sumthin’. What you doing out here?” “Aw jeez man. That’s all rumours. I just came back from living with my gran, out east. Hey, what’cha doin’ hanging out with flutterbum and the kid with the peepers? You can do better than that can’t you?” Victor’s expressions turned into one of distaste, but he kept his voice cool. “Come on man. Don’t slag Sherlock and Mike, they’re good kids. Got me out of some tough time a while back,” Ripper’s expression lightened and he turned towards the two other boys, a Cheshire cat-like grin stretched across his face. “Neato. Hey, that reminds me. Raymond just got his next load in. Damn fine stuff too, good enough to sell black market. More importantly, he’s givin’ out samples and we’ve been invited. Your boys can come too,” Victor became visibly excited and this worried Sherlock. While Victor was more expressive than most, Sherlock had never seen him like this. “C’mon boys. It’ll be fun,” Mike turned his head away and clenched his hands. “Nah Vic, Ma wants me to deliver some of her baking to Mrs. Thompson. I’ve really got to go.” “Yeah, no problem Mikey. See you later,” Mike scurried off into the distance, obviously aching to get away from the scum of small town America, the guys with connections to drugs. Sherlock was indifferent, though and trusted Vic almost too much. “You comin’ Sherlock?” “Yeah, yeah. Cool it, Vic. Where’s the place?” Ripper turned his chestnut eyes on Sherlock and smiled tauntingly. “Ah, boy. That’s confidential. Just keep quiet and follow me.”

The three teenagers arrived at the destitute house about thirty minutes, sweating profusely and feet aching. “Raymond stashed it behind this board. Probably knew we’d be coming,” Ripper grabbed a moulding board and tore it up, revealing a small bag of white powder. “Just lemme set it up and we’ll be off,” Sherlock turned to Vic, who was sitting on the floor next to him. If a complete loser like Ripper could do this, so could Sherlock. Using his blade to create nine small lines of the powder, Ripper went first, snorting up the substance with a short, black straw. Handing the device over to Victor, the eldest boy went next. Upon handing the straw to Sherlock, Vic gave a small grin, as if to assure the boy that it was perfectly safe. Sherlock knew very well that it was not, but he’d never been one to back away from a challenge, even one as stupid and as dangerous as this. Quickly inhaling the powder, Sherlock sat back, propped up against the rotting drywall.

After what seemed like only a couple minutes (but in reality had been hours) the police found them, acting on an anonymous call. The anonymous informer- who sounded very similar to Mrs. Stamford –told them of the direction the boys were headed in and the police did the rest. But, in all their authoritarian glory, the police did not notice the plastic bag of white dust hidden underneath the floorboards beneath their feet. Vic and Ripper made a run for it and, surprisingly, escaped. Sherlock, however, was not so lucky. Lifted by his arms, the thin adolescent was carried into the back of the police car and the whole incident was written off as a drunken slumber. Mycroft was correct. He had been very lucky. Next time, he couldn’t afford to be caught by the police or they would begin to suspect something. No, from now on, Sherlock Holmes had to either find a different kind of fix or be extremely careful. If only he knew that fix was moving into his town that very day.


	2. Cracked Pavement

Greenville was hot. Not like the kind of hot that could be easily dismissed with an icy Coca-Cola or a fan, but the type of heat that made sticky sweat drip down your neck, even though the air itself wasn’t moist. God, what John would have given to go back to New York. Even though the Big Apple often reached a blistering temperature in the summer, there were still many dark corners and cool, damp alleyways to rest in. Ah yes, New York was definitely preferable to this broiling prairie. Sighing heavily, John stood up in the back of the moving truck and nudged Harry’s shoulder, jolting the snoring girl awake. “C’mon, Harry. We’re here,” Harry yawned loudly and glared at John. The sliding metal door on the back of the truck was thrown open and John’s parents appeared on the other side. “Get up, you two. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do,” John’s mother stood timidly beside the hulking man, her makeup starting to slide down her face in the torrid heat. John looked up at the never-ending sky, stretching the wheat fields flat and the dirt road leading out of town. John had always known that this was going to be a trying time for the family, but he was pretty sure they could’ve gotten a better house than the decrepit, unpainted bungalow on the east end of town. Maybe they could paint it or something to that effect.

“Grab that box, Johnny,” his older sister commanded, their parents already heading towards the house with packages of their own. “Yeah, yeah,” John wrapped his hands around the bottom of the dusty cardboard and headed for the front door. Compared to the depressing outside of the house, the inside was actually not that bad. While cramped and dark, the floors weren’t scuffed and the walls were a deep wine colour. John’s room was at the very back, the small horizontal window facing the empty backyard. Their parent’s room was across the hall and Harry’s was downstairs, and boy, did John envy her. The basement, while covered with cobwebs and moulding in some corners, was cooler than the main floor. After what seemed like an eternity of moving boxes, the four members of the Watson family sat down to an early supper of sandwiches and water, as nothing was in their refrigerator. John was itching to get out of the house as he knew what was sure to come, the unavoidable drinking. 

“Hey, Pop. Can Harry and I buzz out for a bit?” John tentatively asked; Mr. Watson had a reputation for being somewhat unpredictable. “I don’t care. Go on boy. Get out of this dump,” John’s father’s face quirked into a small smirk, as though trashing the house would somehow make it a tolerable abode. Harry and John quickly stood up, the legs of the creaky chairs pushing against equally creaky floorboards. Giving their mother pecks on her cheek, the two set out the front door, into the relentless late afternoon sun. “Where to, Johnny?” “Geez, I dunno. Might as well head downtown, if they even have one,” the street on which the Watson residence sat was long and unswept, reminiscent of those quaint prairie roads he had read about in books, John thought, before realizing that this actually was a prairie road, and that they now actually lived in a small town. Walking down their street for a couple of minutes, the two turned a couple of corners before reaching something that resembled a main street. 

“Hey, look! They’ve got a drive-in, c’mon,” Harry grabbed John’s sweaty hand and pulled him towards the pink and yellow building, her green knee-length skirt rippling in the wind. The sun was beginning to set, sky turning vibrant shade of red, yellow and orange. It was almost hypnotic. How could one live here and not appreciate the sight every night was almost unbelievable to John. This was something that New York could never offer, a glimpse into the purity of nature. “John-neeee, come on,” Harry whined and dragged the boy further across the cracked pavement. The two ran around the side of the white fence surrounding the parking lot that was beginning to fill with cars packed with rowdy teenagers. It was no surprise, either. The movie on that night was Them!, a flick about giant ants. It would surely give the girls a reason to pretend to be afraid and the boys a reason to wrap their arms around the cowering young ladies. Finding a kicked-in plank of wood at the corner of the lot, the two ran in, ducking below the line of sight, hearts racing with excitement. Crawling to the cooling asphalt, John and Harry sat beside a group of giggling girls, their faces fresh with rouge and lipstick. Harry immediately introduced herself and joined in their conversation, leaving John to awkwardly wait for the movie to begin. Suddenly, John heard a crunching noise next to him and he spun his head around, searching for the culprit.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you ‘round much? You new here?” The boy lifted his coke-bottle glasses up for a second to wipe the sweat from the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Name’s John Watson, just moved into town today,” John replied, trying to act nonchalant, as though people coming up to talk to him was a normal occurrence. “I’m Mike Stamford. Where ya from John? That accent don’t sound local,” Mike garbled around a mouthful of buttery popcorn; the culprit of the crunching noises. “He’s from Brooklyn,” a deep voice rumbled from behind John. John whipped his head back, seeking the source of the remarkable (and entirely correct) observation. However, John wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Curly black hair backlit by the setting sun and stark orange sky, the boy was one of the most beautiful human beings John had ever seen. This was no exaggeration, he truly was. Taller than John by at least half a foot and slender, the teen was wearing artfully ripped blue jeans, a bright white t-shirt and a muted black leather jacket. Sneakers scuffing on the asphalt, the boy sat on the other side of John, giving him a better view of the greaser’s face. Plump Cupid’s bow lips, high cheekbones and eyes that were somehow a light green and a stark blue at the same time, the teenager’s whole appearance was almost ethereal; too otherworldly to be possible.

“Oh, let me spare you the struggle of asking how I knew. It’s painfully obvious. Thick worker’s jeans; can only be bought in New York, and designed for the big city’s climate- yours are probably from a second hand store. Hands scarred on the palms; probably from heavy construction work- something not done many other places, not to mention New York is the only place to have a labour shortage damaging enough to allow a 16 year old to work heavy equipment. Wallet not found in back pocket; probably chained to your belt, hidden under your shirt- you’ve clearly had experience with pick-pockets, again New York. Paler than us- well paler than Mike- a long shot, but it’s most likely you lived in a place with plenty of shade. Everything points to New York. Now I know you’re going to ask Brooklyn, but even a square like you should know that anyone is capable of reading accents, with a little practice. Alright daddy-o, lay it on me,” the teen paused and beckoned John to speak. 

“Lay what on you? That was outta sight! Wow, you should be a detective or something,” John beamed at the boy, clearly impressed by what he’d just witnessed. “That’s the plan. I was wrong about one thing, however,” the boy’s lip twitched upward, emulating something of a smile. “What’s that?” John asked, he’d been right about everything. “You’re no square,” the adolescent replied and shifted his gaze to the screen, where the movie was beginning, as though he was uncomfortable with giving compliments. “Gee, thanks. Say, what’s your name?” “The handle’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replied, waiting for the inevitable ‘what a strange name’ or ‘you gotta be fooling’. “Neato! Never met a Sherlock before,” John mumbled, ears still slightly pink from Sherlock’s compliment. “I know you’re new here Johnny,” John inwardly cringed, he hated that name, “but some of us are trying to watch the flick.” Mike chewed the popcorn loudly, mashing the white and yellow snack to a pulpy mush. Sneaking one final glance at Sherlock, who was now engrossed in the movie, John gave a tiny smile and turned his gaze back to the screen. Maybe Greenville wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

After the movie, John bid Sherlock and Mike goodbye and began to look for Harry. She’d always been able to slip his watch somehow, and it seemed as though nothing had changed. Scanning the now-emptying lot, John saw nothing and began to worry. Harry was (to say in the least) extremely irresponsible, and often found herself in trouble that only John could rescue her from. John loved his sister, but occasionally she forgot what the situation was like at home. They didn’t have a choice whether or not to come home late. Any later than 10:45 and… and. Oh fuck. John was going to be in so much trouble- no, that wasn’t accurate. He was going to be in danger. God, he needed to find Harry, and quickly. Ducking through the fence opening and glancing around the wooded area behind the drive-in, John began to hyperventilate. Shit, shit, shit. Oh god, where was Harry? 

His temporary immobility passing, John jogged back to Main Street and took a look at the large clock on the face of the town council building. 11:04 pm. He had to get back now, with or without Harry. Spinning backwards, the teen ran down the deserted road, the streetlamp’s yellow light giving the air around him a warm, buzzing feeling. Just as John turned the corner, he crashed into a boy with ebony curls and alabaster skin, Sherlock. “Jesus Christ, slow down slick,” Sherlock crushed the dying cigarette with his white sneaker. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve got to go,” John tried his absolute hardest not to look completely panicked and out of breath, even though he really was. “Where’s the fire? Night’s young,” “Harry slipped out on me and I’ve got get back home,” John panted, trying to control himself, “..before I get in trouble.” Sherlock squinted and stared behind John for a second, before the corner of his mouth twitched up. “That Harry?” John twisted backwards so quickly he was sure he’d pulled something. 

“Johnny, Johnny. Come on, we’ve got to get home!” Green skirt flapping from the force of her running, Harry dashed past her younger brother and began to continue down the dusty prairie road. “Thanks, Sherlock. See you ‘round,” “Anytime, John,” the dark-haired teen mumbled after a sprinting John Watson, fingers trembling for another smoke. “Anytime.” John glanced back at the boy one final time, before he disappeared from sight. Upon reaching their house, John saw the two dark silhouettes of his parents illuminated in the window; arms dramatically waving and defensive positions engaged. John knew what was to come next all too well.

Bursting inside the newly-christened Watson home, John pushed past Harry and stood in front of the older girl’s quivering figure. “Where the hell have you been, boy? Your curfew is 10:45 and it’s,” John’s father paused for a moment to glance at the pawn store watch on his thick wrist, “it’s 11:17! Do you take me for some kind of fool, boy? I can read time you know, not a complete idiot,” Mr. Watson began to drift closer and closer to the teenagers, red in the face and smelling of cheap whiskey. “You’ll get what you deserve, boy,” and with that, a meaty fist was lifted and then plummeted towards John’s face. Connecting with the side of his nose and his cheekbone, John felt blood begin to drip from his nose, staining the oak floorboards. Two more punches delivered to his stomach, John stood his ground, trying to keep Harry behind him, her entire frame shivering with her wailing sobs. A final slap sent John reeling to the ground and Mr. Watson stormed past the teens, and grabbed the still-swinging front door. 

“Don’t be late again, Johnny,” a hearty slam ended the incident and Harry immediately bent down to tend to John. Mrs. Watson sank into the paisley chair in the corner and buried her head in her hands, silent tears still streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, Johnny. I really am,” John mustered the strength to glance up at Harry, his face swelling and starting bruise. Fat teardrops fell from her dark brown eyes onto John’s cheek. “It’ll get better, Harry, it really will,” John lied through his teeth, whimpering and shuddering as Harry pulled at his angry red torso, in order to pull him up. And if John thought he saw a slightly darker shade of lipstick on her mouth, he said nothing of it.


End file.
